The air in the ruined shrine froze solid.
That hoarse, snake-like voice from outside coiled into their ears, cold and poisonous.
Whatever fragile hope Lin Yan and A Jin still clung to was crushed to dust.
A Jin reacted instantly. Before the echo of the voice had even faded, she seized the broken half-staff, stepping in front of Lin Yan and the doorway. Her eyes were razor-sharp, her stance ready to strike. Lin Yan forced his right hand around the dagger's hilt, back pressed to the wall, breath ragged. Sweat dripped down his temples. Despair washed over him—only this time, there was steel mixed into it.
Outside, heavy boots trampled through the brush—three, maybe four men, circling the shrine like wolves.
"What? Gonna make me invite you out myself?"
The voice rasped again, now tinged with irritation—and amusement.
A Jin drew in a breath. Hiding was useless now. She threw a last glance at Lin Yan—something between apology and resolve—then yanked the door open.
Blinding daylight poured in.
Four, maybe five men stood beyond the threshold, forming a loose semicircle. All of them hard-faced and broad-shouldered, armed with cleavers, axes, or blades slick with oil and dirt. Their eyes gleamed with feral light.
The man in front was not the tallest, but his presence dwarfed the rest.
A leather apron hung from his shoulders, stained with grease and old blood. His bare arms were knotted with muscle and crisscrossed with scars. A ragged slash ran from brow to jaw, splitting half his face like a butcher's cut. When he looked at them, it was not as a man looks at people—but as a butcher sizes up meat.
He was, unmistakably, the Butcher.
Lin Yan's heart clenched. Could this be—the very man he'd been sent to find?
The Butcher's gaze swept past A Jin's defiant stance to Lin Yan's pale, shaking figure. His eyes paused on the bandaged shoulder; a cruel grin twisted his scar.
"Two little strays. Bold, sneaking all the way to my doorstep."
"Which road you from? 'Cross-mountain Wind' scouts? Or the dogs from the magistrate's kennels?"
"We're neither!" A Jin blurted, voice taut but clear. "We're refugees. My brother's wounded—we only needed a place to hide!"
"Refugees?" The Butcher barked a laugh. "You expect me to buy that? Refugees don't crawl into Blackwater Ridge dripping that kind of blood."
He stepped closer, menace thick in the air.
"I'll ask once more. Who sent you? Lie again, and you stay here—as fertilizer."
His men moved forward, blades catching the light.
A Jin's fingers whitened around the staff. She flicked a look at Lin Yan—her decision made.
And then—
Lin Yan lifted his right hand. Not a knife—but a small, dark iron token, etched with strange sigils that gleamed faintly in the sun.
His voice was hoarse but steady, every word struck like iron:
"Are you… the Butcher?"
"I come by the order of the Mute Servant."
"He left this as proof."
At the name Mute Servant, the Butcher jerked as if struck.
The grin died. His murky eyes narrowed to pinpoints of light. He stared at the token as though it had clawed open his past.
His breath hitched; even the men behind him faltered, exchanging uneasy glances.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
The Butcher took a single step forward.
Then another.
A Jin edged sideways, blocking half of his path, her weapon raised—but he ignored her completely. His attention stayed fixed on that token.
He stopped within arm's reach, close enough that Lin Yan could smell the mix of iron, fat, and smoke on him. The man's hand—huge, scarred, stained dark—extended.
"Give it here."
Lin Yan hesitated only a heartbeat. Then he placed the token into that rough palm.
The Butcher turned it over and over, calloused fingers tracing the grooves, nails scraping the edges. His eyes flickered—hard, then distant, then almost lost.
Silence filled the shrine.
Finally, he looked up again. The menace was still there—but changed, muddied by something else. Shock. Doubt. Perhaps even… grief.
"Mute Uncle…" His voice rasped lower, trembling. "He's still alive?"
Lin Yan's throat tightened. "I don't know. When I found what he left behind—he was already gone."
A flicker of pain crossed the Butcher's face before he masked it. He studied Lin Yan again—the youth's worn features, the blood, the exhaustion—and something shifted in his gaze.
"Name."
"Lin Yan."
The Butcher repeated it under his breath, as if tasting the syllables. His eyes slid to A Jin.
"And her?"
"She's my companion. Without her, I'd never have made it here."
He gave a brief nod. No more questions.
Closing his fist around the token, he turned toward his men.
"Out."
"What you saw here—forget it. Anyone so much as breathes a word…" He dragged a thumb across his throat. "…I'll feed him to the dogs."
The men bowed quickly, retreating into the trees.
Soon, only the Butcher remained.
He turned back to them. The attempt at a smile twisted his scar into something worse.
"Lucky brat." He jerked his chin toward Lin Yan's wound. "Keep that arm untreated, you'll lose it. Come."
Without waiting for a reply, he strode into the forest.
A Jin and Lin Yan exchanged a look—equal parts disbelief, relief, and lingering dread.
The killer who'd just threatened to gut them now walked away as an ally—or something close.
They followed, step by step, into the shadows of Blackwater Ridge—
uncertain whether they'd found sanctuary…
or entered the jaws of another trap.